


An Endless Chasm of Inches

by tardigrape



Series: The Witcher and His Bard [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Break Up, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Sex, Heartbreak, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22356493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardigrape/pseuds/tardigrape
Summary: When Jaskier is invited to sing at a royal wedding, he thinks his dreams have all come true. But his heartbreak is only beginning.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher and His Bard [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591987
Comments: 55
Kudos: 427





	An Endless Chasm of Inches

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh, I'm so sorry I can only write pining, angsty, heartbroken Jaskier. At least here I give a glimpse that Geralt is equally pining and angsty. They just don't talk to each other enough.

It was Jaskier’s favorite time of night. The crowd was drunk but not yet rowdy, and they adored him, responding to every song with thunderous applause and demanding more, singing along with the older and more well-known songs, completely enraptured with his heroic tales of the stalwart, fearless witcher on his noble quest to rid the world of evil monsters—despite the fact that said witcher was sitting in the back corner glaring at the barkeep and peasants and occasionally Jaskier himself—but this was unimportant because in the second song Jaskier had winked at a beautiful, dark-haired lass near the front of the crowd, and in the fourth song she had winked back, so Geralt could go on glaring all he liked because out in the monster-infested wilds where only muscles and a sword would save you, Geralt might be unbeatable, but in here where the ale flowed and the crowd screamed for more—in here, Jaskier was king.

He finished his last song— _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ as always—barely able to hear himself over the deafening voices of the crowd singing along, and an absolute mountain of coins clinked into his cap, which he had left upturned at his feet. He caught the dark-haired lass by the elbow and murmured into her ear a request that she join him at his table, and she followed him, giggling and blushing, as he made his way back to the black-clad scowl that was his traveling companion.

“Cheers, Geralt,” Jaskier said, settling onto the bench across from him and pulling the girl into his lap. “This is, um…” He looked up. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

“Estella,” she breathed, fondling his ear.

“This is Estella,” Jaskier said to Geralt.

Geralt cocked half a grin at the girl. “Lovely. It’s so nice of you to take an interest in the bard. I do worry about him, spending so much time alone. Most people won’t go near him on account of the rash.”

Estella’s eyes grew wide. “The…what?”

“Indeed, your bravery is quite impressive. It’s said that, despite how painful the treatment is, it only works less than half the time. Our poor Jaskier here has been through the harrowing ordeal five times, and still, it keeps spreading.”

Estella jumped up, even as Jaskier was protesting. “No, he’s just joking, really—”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, backing away from the table. “I really must be getting home—”

“There’s no rash, Geralt is just—”

“It’s just very late….” She was already pushing the door open, wiping the hands that had touched Jaskier liberally on her skirt.

Jaskier glared at Geralt. “That was uncalled for.”

“It was very much called for,” Geralt replied. “You forgot we only have one room tonight.”

“I didn’t forget, I just thought you might have the decency to let me have some privacy for an hour or two if I bought you enough drinks.”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow and downed the last of one of said drinks, motioning to the barkeep for another. “Well, there’s also the fact that I want you to myself tonight.”

Jaskier couldn’t help the deep blush he felt creep up from his collar, any more than he could help the grin that spread across his face. He ought to be angry, ought to make Geralt sleep alone for his stunt, but the thought that Geralt had chased off a giggling girl because he saw her as competition was exceedingly pleasing. As much fun as that lass might have been, Jaskier had to admit he was, in fact, far more interested in letting Geralt have him all to himself.

Just then, a young man appeared at the end of their table, his clothes spattered with mud from the road. He ducked his head in a quick bow. “Master Jaskier?” he asked.

“You’re developing quite the fan club,” Geralt grumbled as the barkeep set drinks down before them.

Jaskier was nonplussed. Although many people now knew his name, few of them actually used it, and fewer still prefaced it with “Master,” the title he’d earned at Oxenfurt before he’d taken to the road. “Yes?” he asked the boy.

The lad produced a parchment from a bag at his hip and handed it to Jaskier. Jaskier turned it over in his hands. His name was written on it in flowing script, and the seal bore two scallops and a sea urchin. “I’m to wait for your response,” the lad said, his head bowed.

Jaskier broke the seal and opened the letter, his eyes scanning it quickly. His grin grew with every word.

“Geralt,” he breathed. “It’s an invitation to perform at the royal wedding of Prince Ethain of Cidaris and Lady Sha de Molay.” He turned to the messenger boy. “Yes, please send my acceptance to His Majesty King Mathen. Tell him I am honored.”

The boy bowed and left. Jaskier turned back to Geralt. “Oh, Geralt. A royal invitation! A summer wedding! And Cidaris is on the coast. News will travel far from there. It’s said that the ports in Cidaris host ships from all over the world. I’ll be famous across oceans!”

“Congratulations,” Geralt said, tipping back his mug.

Jaskier read the letter again. “We must leave first thing in the morning. Cidaris is at least a week’s ride from here, and the wedding is in only nine days. I’ll hardly have time to prepare.”

“We?” Geralt raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, we,” Jaskier replied, motioning between them. “You and me. And Roach, of course. Do you think I might ride behind you? We’d make better time on horseback.”

“Oh, no,” Geralt said, shaking his head. “I’m not going to some royal wedding.”

“You’re…but why not?”

“The last time I tangled with royalty it ended very, very badly. I have no desire to repeat the experience.”

“Well you’re not required to tangle with them,” Jaskier said. He pursed his lips. “In fact, you’re not actually invited. I was going to bring you as my guest, but if you’d rather wait in an inn—”

“You misunderstand me, bard,” Geralt said. “I’m not going to the wedding. I’m not going to Cidaris. You’re on your own with this one.”

Jaskier’s heart stopped, his grin fading. “Not going to Cidaris?”

“Now you’re getting it.”

The room spun. Jaskier took several deep breaths, trying to make sense of things. He had known, of course, that Geralt had resisted his joining him on his exploits at first. Even after their first adventure together, Geralt had tried to get rid of Jaskier. Jaskier had made it plain then that he had no intention of leaving, and what’s more, he was going to make the people not only tolerate Geralt, but love him. And in time, Geralt had stopped talking about leaving, had stopped telling Jaskier to go away. And once they had started sleeping together…well, Jaskier knew the witcher did not return his feelings fully (how could he, how could anyone, when Jaskier’s feelings were always big enough for three or four people) but he thought Geralt harbored some positive feeling for him. Melitele’s tits, he’d just now ruined Jaskier’s chances with a woman just so he could have him tonight.

And yet….

Jaskier had known his heart was running away from him, had known he was too in love with Geralt to think straight, had known he was getting in over his head. He had tried to slow down, tried to rein in his feelings, but he may as well have tried to hold back the tide. And Geralt had taken his pleasure in Jaskier, had enjoyed his body, but had never, not even once, implied that there was anything more between them. Jaskier had known this, but he had thought his love could be enough for both of them.

Jaskier realized Geralt had been watching him as his mind worked through what his heart refused to believe. The witcher downed the last of his beer and stood. “I’m going to bed,” he said. As he passed Jaskier, he leaned close. “I hope you’ll join me.” And he walked away, toward the room they had rented before Jaskier had gone on to perform.

Jaskier sagged onto the table, dropping his head onto his arms. He was such a fool, such a madman, to think that Geralt would follow him as readily as he had followed Geralt. Of course the witcher had no interest in Jaskier’s courtly invitation. What was in it for him? Nothing but supporting the man he obviously did not love.

Well, Jaskier was no stranger to heartbreak. He knew that, the sooner he turned his mind to other tasks, the sooner his heart would heal, and now he had a task of great import to turn to. No sense in delaying things; might as well start for Cidaris immediately. Perhaps he could catch up to the messenger—company was always welcome on the road, and besides, it was safer traveling with someone.

Jaskier stood to leave, but realization hit him—he was wearing his performance clothes. His traveling clothes were safely bundled in the room, to which Geralt had just returned. Jaskier briefly considered leaving them behind and just making the trip in his finery, but his shoes were silk and would wear through before he reached the edge of town, and besides, the walking would pill his trousers, and then he’d have to stop and buy not only shoes but trousers as well, both for traveling _and_ for performing once he reached Cidaris, and the wait would likely make him miss the wedding entirely.

He ran a hand over his face and sighed with resignation. There was nothing for it. He would have to go back to the room.

As he climbed the stairs he resolved to get in and out as quickly as possible. He could simply grab his bag, in which his traveling clothes were stowed, and leave, and just change his clothes as he went. This plan was far worse than his initial one of leaving without encountering Geralt again, but far better than wallowing in his beer for the rest of the night (which he was sorely tempted to do). If he moved quickly enough, Geralt might not even notice him.

This plan fell entirely to pieces when Jaskier pushed open the door to their room. Geralt lay naked on the bed, illuminated by firelight and candles, one hand slowly stroking his hard cock. Jaskier fumbled the door closed and tried not to look, but Geralt was grinning, fucking _grinning_ at him, his golden eyes glowing slightly.

“Glad you decided to join me,” he said.

“I did no such thing.” Jaskier’s voice came out higher than he’d intended. He cleared his throat and stumbled toward his bag. “I just came to get my things.” He picked it up and immediately dropped it, the strap slipping through his sweaty fingers. He wiped his palms on his trousers and tried again, successfully hoisting it onto his shoulder this time, along with his lute.

He turned to find that Geralt had risen from the bed, and was now standing in the middle of the room, his head cocked. “I have one last request before you go,” he said.

“No.” Jaskier took a step sideways toward the door.

“This may be the last time I ever see you,” Geralt said, stepping toward the door himself. “I could be killed by the next monster to cross my path.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier protested, taking another step toward the door, though this one was smaller than the last.

“You could be killed on the road,” Geralt continued. “Or by some noble you will, undoubtedly, cuckold in Cidaris.”

“Geralt, plesae.” Jaskier hated to hear the whine in his voice. He took another small step toward the door, which Geralt mirrored.

“Just let me look at you,” Geralt said. He took another step toward Jaskier, crowding him. Jaskier stepped back, and his back hit the wall. He was forcibly reminded of the first time they kissed, when Geralt had trapped him against the wall of an inn and accused him of fearing him. Jaskier swallowed, and Geralt stepped closer.

“Let me memorize the way you look.” His golden eyes roved over Jaskier’s face. “The way you feel.” His large, warm hand slipped under Jaskier’s doublet, tugged his shirt out of his waistband, slid over the hairs of Jaskier’s belly, which fluttered under the touch. “The way you smell.” Geralt leaned in close, burying his nose in Jaskier’s neck, his hand still massaging Jaskier’s skin under his shirt, his thigh pressing between Jaskier’s legs, and Jaskier whimpered as the need to flee and the need to see what came next fought his chest. “The way you sound.” Jaskier felt his resolve unraveling, his desire tugging it apart, and his fingernails bit into the wood of the wall behind him, desperate to cling to the last shred of resistance he had left. “The way you taste.” Geralt’s lips kissed a trail along Jaskier’s jaw, inching hotly, wetly toward his mouth, and Jaskier’s resistance melted entirely away. The bag and lute dropped from Jaskier’s shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around Geralt’s broad shoulders as Geralt’s mouth closed over his, his tongue working into his mouth, his sharp teeth nipping at Jaskier’s lip.

Geralt pressed hard against him, one hand gripping his hip while the other worked at the fastenings of his doublet, his tongue still in Jaskier’s mouth, and Jaskier’s head was spinning, his heart was hammering, his cock was aching to be stroked, while a tiny part of his brain whispered _get out get out get out_ but he blocked it out, shoved it deep down inside himself, because Geralt was right, either or both of them might die, and this might be the last he ever saw of the witcher, or felt or smelled or heard or tasted, and he was not giving it up just yet.

Geralt finished unfastening the buttons of Jaskier’s doublet, and Jaskier shrugged out of it as Geralt pushed it off his shoulders. Geralt pulled Jaskier’s shirt over his head, and then kissed him deeply again, pressing against him so that Geralt’s chest covered Jaskier’s, his skin hot and slightly damp with sweat. Jaskier moaned and twined his fingers in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt growled in response, slid his hands under Jaskier’s ass, and hefted him into the air, grinding his cock between Jaskier’s legs.

Geralt pulled him away from the wall, one strong arm wrapping around his back to keep Jaskier pressed tightly against him, and walked to the bed. Jaskier had just enough awareness left to marvel at the tremendous strength of the witcher, carrying him around as easily as a sack of grain, before Geralt lowered him onto the bed. Geralt’s fingers were already working open the buttons of his trousers, as Jaskier himself was kicking off his shoes—damn and bless them for being the reason he was here now—and then they were both pushing Jaskier’s trousers off his hips, down to his knees, and Jaskier was kicking them off as well.

Then Geralt was on him, covering his skin in kisses, licking and sucking at his neck and shoulders and chest, entwining his fingers with Jaskier’s, and Jaskier was gasping, moaning, trying not to close his eyes and miss even one second of the beauty of white hair and rippling muscles and scarred skin, but it was so hard to keep them open when Geralt’s liquid lips made his toes curl and his back arch and his cock ache.

“Geralt,” he gasped, his brain a pathetic pile of ineloquent mush, “oh, fuck, _Geralt_ ,” for now the witcher had released his hands to work his mouth lower, across Jaskier’s torso, and lower still, to flick his tongue over the tip of Jaskier’s cock. White-hot desire ripped through his body, bucking his hips and clenching his fists, and Geralt moaned and slid his tongue down Jaskier’s cock, its wet heat stoking the fire rather than dampening it. Jaskier whimpered as his feet scrabbled uselessly against the sheets, and Geralt licked his balls, and Jaskier was going to explode, he would never reach Cidaris, he would die right here and it would all be _Geralt’s fault_. But then Geralt’s lips closed over his cock, and he slid his mouth down its length, opening his throat to admit all of Jaskier’s shaft, and maybe it was all right to die if this was the price of it. Jaskier’s fingers gripped white hair as his hips thrust and bucked, his cock sliding in and out of Geralt’s mouth, and Geralt opened his throat again and again to make sure Jaskier’s tip touched as far back as it was possible to go. Jaskier opened his mouth to tell Geralt how marvelous he was, how incredibly exquisite his mouth felt on Jaskier’s cock, how spectacularly magnificent it felt to fuck his throat, but all that came out was a keening wail. Geralt’s hands massaged Jaskier’s hips as Jaskier continued to fuck his mouth, and the kneading pressure of his thumbs was doing magical things to a point deep in Jaskier’s belly. Jaskier wondered briefly if this wasn’t some sort of witcher sign, some secret magic taught under blankets in the darkest depths of the night in Kaer Morhen, and then Jaskier realized that it didn’t matter whether it was magic or just Geralt’s natural effect because the heat and pressure was building, his fingers tightening so hard white hair parted company from scalp, his breath rasping in his throat, and the magic that Geralt had kindled inside him was pushing, pulsing, exploding out of him and into Geralt, who sucked and licked and climbed up and kissed it back into Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier’s eyes flew open and he looked into Geralt’s amber gaze, the taste of his own magic thick on his tongue. Geralt smiled and licked his lips, his brows arching in a question. Jaskier considered the substance in his mouth, its taste musky, bitter, slightly salty, similar but not identical to the taste of Geralt’s cum (which Jaskier preferred infinitely, but whether that was because it tasted better or because it was Geralt’s he didn’t quite have the resources to explore at the moment). He gave Geralt a half grin and opened his mouth, rolling the stuff around on his tongue, and Geralt caught his mouth in a kiss, sucking his cum away, licking his tongue and teeth and lips to get every bit, which he swallowed, smiling.

Geralt pressed his leg between Jaskier’s and turned, rolling so that he lay on his back and Jaskier was stretched on top along the length of him. He pulled Jaskier to him and kissed him, and Jaskier’s hand closed over Geralt’s cock, which dripped liberally, coating the tip in a layer of moisture. Jaskier ran his thumb over it, spreading the moisture, and Geralt groaned and broke the kiss, tilting his head back. Jaskier kissed his throat, the divot where his collarbones met, flicking his tongue into the space as his hand worked up and down Geralt’s shaft. Geralt bucked his hips, thrusting his cock into Jaskier’s fist, and Jaskier tightened his grip as he shifted himself lower, moving his own mouth now to Geralt’s cock. He slid his hand to its base and followed it with his lips, his tongue curling around it as he went, and Geralt growled.

Jaskier worked Geralt’s cock with practiced strokes, the musky flavor of his precum merely a hint at the back of his throat. He committed that taste to memory—it held a tang his own cum lacked, a taste like the air before a storm, and Jaskier wondered again if this was a witcher magic or a Geralt magic, or perhaps a magic just between the two of them, a taste for his tongue alone. Geralt’s breath hissed through clenched teeth, and the muscles of his legs bunched and flexed beneath Jaskier’s torso as Jaskier licked and sucked the length of him. Jaskier tightened the grip of his fingers, pushed his throat down on Geralt’s cock, and swallowed, and Geralt bucked hard into his mouth, shooting thick cum so deep into his throat Jaskier had to swallow that too, without even tasting it. He managed to pull back at the end, catch a small bit on his tongue, which he rolled around his mouth, savoring. Geralt lay panting, breathless beneath him, and he considered giving this small morsel to him, as Geralt had done, but no, Jaskier had given Geralt everything, everything, and Geralt had taken and taken and taken, and Jaskier was keeping this for himself.

Jaskier swallowed and lay against Geralt. The rise and fall of his chest was slowing as his breathing returned to normal, but a liquid heat still radiated from his skin, bathing Jaskier in its glow. Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier and pulled him close, kissed him deeply, and turned him again, but now Jaskier was on his stomach, face down on the bed, and Geralt knelt behind him, running his hands over Jaskier’s back, arms, ass, legs, kneading and smoothing his skin. His teeth nipped at Jaskier’s body, bit down into his flesh, and Jaskier felt a giddy rush at the thought that the bruises Geralt left behind would follow him for days, all the way to Cidaris, and then Geralt pressed his lips and tongue to Jaskier’s hole, pushed inside. How was Geralt already ready for more? The witcher’s stamina was the stuff of legend, and Jaskier would write a song about it, ten songs, a hundred songs, but later, because now he was being split in two, torn apart as Geralt slid into him, ripped into shreds and left gasping, bleeding, absolutely fucking dying, because this was what Geralt did to him, what he had always done, what he had always taken and taken and taken, demanding Jaskier’s soul and life but never, ever his heart, which was a shame, really, because it had belonged to Geralt from the very moment Jaskier set eyes on him all those years ago in Posada. But there would be time for these thoughts later too, because Geralt was pounding into him, and Jaskier was opening for him despite himself, because he could never deny Geralt anything he ever wanted, even if it cost Jaskier everything, and the rhythm of Geralt’s desire matched the rhythm of Jaskier’s heart, even if Geralt’s heart beat far too slow to ever catch up. Geralt’s arms wrapped around Jaskier’s chest and pulled him back against him, back to chest, skin to skin, but not heart to heart, no, never that, but right now Jaskier would take what he could get, so he leaned his head back against Geralt’s shoulder and closed his eyes, his mouth slack, and let Geralt thrust into him, breathing in the sweaty smell of him, listening to the throaty gasp of his breath, and if Jaskier could capture this moment and take it with him, open it and touch it and remind himself that once, Geralt needed him, even if only for pleasure, oh, Jaskier would.

But then Geralt was groaning, his movements slowing, and Jaskier knew it was over, that his moment had passed. Geralt slipped out of him and lowered him back onto the bed, breathing quickly and heavily, and Jaskier buried his head in his own arms to stop the hot rush of tears behind his eyelids, because it was done now and there was nothing left but to leave.

Jaskier startled as Geralt’s hand settled on the back of his thigh, and a spark of hope blossomed in his chest, and he turned his head, blinking back the tears, to look at the profile of the witcher, his witcher, in the firelight. Geralt’s eyes were closed and his mouth open, his breath still coming short, a sheen of sweat gilding his cheeks, and Jaskier knew he had never seen anything more beautiful, and would never again even if he lived a thousand lifetimes. He edged closer to Geralt and pressed his body against him, the touch of skin against skin raising gooseflesh all along his side, and Geralt’s arm snaked around him, pulling him close.

Jaskier tucked his head under Geralt’s ear, his cheek resting against his shoulder, one arm across his chest. Everything he had ever felt but never stated gathered in his chest, and three words bubbled up his throat, pushing against his lips, desperate to be set free, but Jaskier pressed his lips together and swallowed, and the words settled back deep in his belly. He would not, could not say this to Geralt, because, yes, Geralt might say it back, and then the world would be gilded, the sun would never set, and Jaskier would never be cold or tired or hungry because he would know that Geralt loved him, and that would be all he would ever need, yes, that could happen, but also Geralt might not say it back, and then the world would be corroded, the sun would never rise, and Jaskier would end his days broken, miserable, and alone, for the one person he loved most in all kingdoms did not love him in return, and that would be more than he could bear.

So Jaskier remained silent, and, presently, he kissed the skin of Geralt’s neck just below his ear, and turned away. The bed creaked beneath Geralt’s weight as he shifted, and for one splendid moment Jaskier thought that Geralt was turning to him, and he was prepared, in that moment, to give it all up, to kiss Cidaris and the blessings of kings and worldwide fame goodbye, and cheerfully spend his days trailing after Geralt, recording his triumphs and warming his bed, and he would die happy knowing that this was enough, but Geralt turned the other way, and a deep, cold, dark chasm opened between them, the inches that separated them becoming whole worlds, and the world darkened and crumbled at the edges, and Jaskier’s heart tore open afresh, because he was, truly, as alone as he’d ever been, alone and unloved and merely tolerated to suit a physical need, discarded the moment he became inconvenient. Jaskier’s tears made no sound as they slid from his eyes, but his breath caught, and he exhaled a shuddering sigh. He had chased after this man, this embodiment of adventure and carnage and beauty, knowing what it would do to him, knowing he was throwing himself face-first into heartbreak, so why had he expected different?

He lay like that, still as death but for the tears that would not stop falling, until Geralt’s breath became deep and even, and then he quietly climbed out of bed, gathered his fine clothes into his bag, pulled out his traveling clothes, and slipped them on, then crept from the room, his eyes downcast, never looking back.

And oh, if he had looked back, he would have seen that Geralt did not sleep (for, in truth, the witcher slept infrequently and then not for long), that Geralt’s golden eyes stared into the distance as he listened to the bard creep out of bed and dress and walk away, leaving him behind, seeking better and softer and _safer_ fortunes, that Geralt let him go because there was no other choice, because letting him go was the only thing that would save him. But Jaskier did not look back, not then, not all the way to Cidaris. And so he never knew.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my work, find me on tumblr: [thetardigrape](https://thetardigrape.tumblr.com/)


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